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A WONDERFUL EVENING, THE LIKES OF WHICH WE'D LOVE TO SEE MORE OF - 09/09/22
Last night I was lying in bed, tossing and turning, scouring the streaming platforms for a film that would quench my thirst for heat.
But nothing but rubbish series with dragons or orcs. Series worth millions of euros that recycle tired ideas with the sole aim of winning subscriptions or Golden Globes. Who cares about heroic fantasy, guys? Make us a series about footwear, shoes if you like, kix at worst. But please, go for something different, something less warlike or stupid. And if you don't know how to do that, adapt my newsletters, it's always better than doing something reheated that gives you acid reflux.
After zoning out for long minutes, paging through the void of audiovisual offerings, I remembered that a Bourgogne Aligoté was shivering from the cold at the bottom of my minibar. Summoning up all the courage I could muster, I catapulted myself out of bed to uncork this superb bottle and be my own Saint-Bernard, as if I'd been the victim of an avalanche. And I have to admit today that I was buried under a mass of feelings, each more confused than the last. To create a little more chaos, I took one glass after another in search of a mental break. But when I'd finished the bottle and couldn't see any more clearly, I decided to go down to the cellar for another. But on the way I remembered that I'd never had a cellar.
Luckily my neighbour on the fifth floor, whose mother was a former mistress of Jacques Chirac, had just come back from a party and asked me to drop by for a moment to have a drink and talk about the passage of time (we'd seen each other the day before). We chatted about politics, the garage sale, the neighbourhood and then, for some reason, we talked about men. She put her foot down before collapsing. Explaining that she'd just been dumped by her redheaded Alsatian and that she felt stripped, empty. I listened to her for hours. It's always essential to put things into words. When she'd emptied her bag, I opened mine and took out a sextoy, telling her that at least he didn't snore, that he didn't come home drunk and throw up on the brand new duvet and that he didn't complain if the shopping wasn't done. She laughed between snot and tears. So without waiting I went up to my house and came back down with two trunks and a portable barbecue that we threw out of the window (it was 3am) in support of Sandrine Rousseau. But mainly because we were so drunk.
And then, as she was cracking open a magnum of champagne with the sextoy I'd given her, I snuck into her bathroom, opened the trunks and dumped my shoes into the bath. I came back and grabbed her by the hand, blindfolded her and threw her into the pool of shoes. Her joy was instantaneous. She started laughing loudly, and couldn't stop calling her redheaded ex a good-for-nothing, a loser who predicted a bleak future for her and had no pussy to speak of. Then she shut up and put one of my pumps on her face, one of the boots on her chest. And I'm going to stop here, because we all know what happens next, and I wouldn't want your favourite newsletter to be censored when I still have so much to tell you.
Go ahead and whine your body to the sound of that thumping bass:
